The Coffin Dancer

calmly.
    God damn you, Rhyme, she thought, then said, “All right.” She measured. “They’re about a half inch. Perfectly round. No scalloped edges.”
    “Where are those?” he asked urgently. “At one end of the corridor, or the other?”
    “Mostly in the middle. There’s a storeroom at the end of the hall. Inside there and near it they’re bigger and have ragged or scalloped edges. At the other end of the corridor, they’re smaller.”
    “Okay, okay,” Rhyme said absently, then he announced, “here’s the story . . . What’s the agent’s name?”
    “Innelman. John Innelman. He’s a friend of Dellray’s.”
    “The Dancer got Innelman in the storeroom, stabbed him once, high. Debilitated him, probably arm or neck. Those are the big, uneven drops. Then he led him down the corridor, stabbing him again, lower. Those are the smaller, rounder ones. The shorter the distance blood falls, the more even the edges.”
    “Why’d he do that?” she gasped.
    “To slow us down. He knows we’ll look for a wounded agent before we start after him.”
    He’s right, she thought, but we’re not looking fast enough!
    “How long’s the corridor?”
    She sighed, looked down it. “About fifty feet, give or take, and the blood trail covers the whole thing.”
    “Any footprints in the blood?”
    “Dozens. They go everywhere. Wait . . . There’s a service elevator. I didn’t see it at first. That’s where the trail leads! He must be inside. We have to—”
    “No, Sachs, wait. That’s too obvious.”
    “We have to get the elevator door open. I’m calling the Fire Department for somebody with a Halligan tool or an elevator key. They can—”
    Calmly Rhyme said, “Listen to me. Do the drops leading to the elevator look like teardrops? With the tails pointing in different directions?”
    “He’s got to be in the elevator! There’re smears on the door. He’s dying, Rhyme! Will you listen to me!”
    “Teardrops, Sachs?” he asked soothingly. “Do they look like tadpoles?”
    She looked down. They did. Perfect tadpoles, with the tails pointing in a dozen different directions.
    “Yeah, Rhyme. They do.”
    “Backtrack until those stop.”
    This was crazy. Innelman was bleeding out in the elevator shaft. She gazed at the metal door for a moment, thought about ignoring Rhyme, but then trotted back down the corridor.
    To the place where they stopped.
    “Here, Rhyme. They stop here.”
    “It’s at a closet or door?”
    “Yes, how’d you know?”
    “And it’s bolted from the outside?”
    “That’s right.”
    How the hell does he do it?
    “So the search team’d see the bolt and pass it by—the Dancer couldn’t very well bolt himself inside. Well, Innelman’s in there. Open the door, Sachs. Use the pliers on the handle, not the knob itself. There’s a chance we can lift a print. And Sachs?”
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t think he left a bomb. He hardly had time. But whatever shape the agent’s in, and it won’t be good, ignore him for a minute and look for any traps first.”
    “Okay.”
    “Promise?”
    “Yes.”
    Pliers out . . . unbolt the latch . . . twist the knob.
    Glock up. Apply poundage. Now!
    The door flew outward.
    But there was no bomb or other trap. Just the pale, blood-slicked body of John Innelman, unconscious, tumbling to her feet.
    She barked a soft scream. “He’s here. Need medics! He’s cut bad.”
    Sachs bent over him. Two EMS techs and more agents ran up, Dellray with them, grim faced.
    “What’d he do to you, John? Oh, man.” The lanky agent stood back while the medics went to work. They cut off much of his clothing and examined the stab wounds. Innelman’s eyes were half open, glazed.
    “Is he . . . ?” Dellray asked.
    “Alive, just barely.”
    The medics slapped pads on the slashes, put a tourniquet on his leg and arm, and then ran a plasma line. “Get him in the bus. We gotta move. I mean, move!”
    They placed the agent on a gurney and hurried down the corridor, Dellray with him, head down, muttering to himself and squeezing his dead cigarette between his fingers.
    “Could he talk?” Rhyme asked. “Any clue where the Dancer went?”
    “No. He was unconscious. I don’t know if they can save him. Jesus.”
    “Don’t get rattled, Sachs. We’ve got a crime sceneto analyze. We have to find out where the Dancer is, if he’s still around. Go back to the storeroom. See if there are exterior doors or windows.”
    As she walked to it she